Five time Illya killed his partner and one time he didn't
by Barcardivodka
Summary: Chapter 6: When they had met in the men's room in that West Berlin park Solo was certain Peril would have killed him, right in front of Sanders, if Peril's handler hadn't put a stop to it.
1. Rage

The summer he turned seventeen Illya Kuryakin hit six foot five. He'd been at the military academy for orphans since his mother died three years before. His life had narrowed to routine and discipline. Twelve hour days of academic study, languages, physical fitness, weapons training and military strategy. He was already a black belt in Judo and was quickly mastering Sambo, becoming more deadly and efficient with each lesson. Illya was thriving, even though he had felt the sting of the belt across his back on numerous occasions. The altercations his temper had lead him into were the only black marks against him. The academy instructors considered them minor indiscretions against a near perfect record of study and military acuity and the belt was considered more a corrective procedure than a punishment.

As his knowledge, skills and physique grew, so did his privileges. His food wasn't rationed, allowing his lanky frame to bulk up with muscle. He was allowed time off from his training schedule to compete in chess tournaments, often bringing glory to the academy by being placed in the top three. He'd even been given a longer bed that nearly accommodated his long-limbed height. He was also allowed to choose his own specialist courses, opting for communications, amphibious tactics, and unarmed combat.

Alongside Illya for all his triumphs was his training partner Anatoly Komaroff. They were both sons of disgraced party officers and had been partnered together for the last two years. As Illya grew in size and skill, Anatoly had become bitter and resentful of the privileges granted to him. It had caused more than one argument, with Illya becoming more bewildered by Anatoly's attitude. Illya only wanted to learn, to be the best he could, to prove to others he did not carry his father's treasonous shame. It confused him when Anatoly accused him of usurping him, just to curry favour from the instructors. Illya vehemently denied the accusation, pointing out that they were the top two in all their classes, that they were both granted privileges for their hard work and dedication.

Illya had yet to learn that being successful could breed resentment and jealousy in others, particularly amongst those who had lost the top cadet position and had fallen to second place. Anatoly had once been the favourite amongst the instructors, but Illya had outpaced him in every class over the last twelve months. As the top placed cadet, Illya would be given the choice as to which branch of the military he wished to join. Everyone else would have no option but to go where they were assigned.

Anatoly had a determined, vicious streak that the instructors had encouraged but tried to teach him to hone it with discipline. Much the same as they did with Illya's temper. Anatoly revelled in status, being acknowledged as the best had become an addiction. It dulled the sting of his father's betrayal. His resentment and anger towards Illya grew with each passing day, made all the more galling that Illya did not asserted his favoured position on the younger cadets. Illya was obeyed when he gave orders or made a request, not out of fear, but out of respect. Anatoly had to use intimidation and blackmail to get the same obedience.

As summer turned to autumn their training partnership was in shreds. Illya tried desperately to get their relationship back onto a friendlier level. He attempted to view the situation as a lesson in leadership. But he struggled to keep his temper in check as Anatoly openly undermined him during simulated combat exercises. Out in the field, you had to rely on each other. It was a time to put petty differences aside, complete the mission and survive it.

It all came to a head as autumn gave way to an early winter that gripped the country in a stranglehold of bitter winds and plummeting temperatures. Deep snow had cut off the training compound from the nearby town, bringing with it the feeling of claustrophobia, putting everyone on edge.

It happened in the morning. Illya had stormed out of the room he shared with Anatoly on the top floor of the barracks, barely holding onto his temper. His hand trembled at his side and he knew he need to go somewhere quiet, a place where he can vent his anger in safety. He never got the opportunity.

Anatoly had followed him from the room, what his intentions were for stirring up Illya's already legendary rage could only ever be speculated. It was the general consensus however, that Anatoly intended for Illya to strike him, which would have earned Illya twenty strokes of the belt in front of the entire academy. A humiliating experience, but not a unique occurrence, either for Illya or half the other cadets. A petty act on Anatoly's part.

It would probably would have succeed, except Anatoly overplayed his hand. As he followed Illya down the stairs to the fourth floor landing, spitting hate filled words about Illya's parents, he inadvertently sealed his fate by calling Illya's mother the one thing Illya could never allow to be said unchallenged. Anatoly called Illya's mother a whore.

It broke Illya's tenuous hold on the raging mists of red hot anger. With a roar of agonised fury Illya struck out with a fist as hard as iron. The blow caught Anatoly in the side of the head and he toppled into the wall striking his head again. He was already losing the fight with unconsciousness when he was hit again, breaking his nose. It was unlikely Anatoly felt himself fall backwards or bounce down the flight of concrete steps. Or that he felt his skull crack and fracture.

He was dead before he hit the last step.

Illya received twenty lashes of the whip for causing the death of a fellow cadet. He would carry the scars on his back for the rest of his days. The punishment was never entered into his records. He graduated the academy early with full honours, the day his back was declared healed.

He was assigned to a spetsnaz specialist unit to begin his military career.

Anatoly Komaroff died during a training accident, or so the report said. He was an orphan. There was no family to mourn him.


	2. Mercy

Illya re-adjusted the scope of his Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle as he surveyed the tents and buildings that made up the small military garrison, nearly a thousand metres away. He had settled himself on a small hill just inside the treeline. The undergrowth and his black combat fatigues made him nearly invisible to any surveillance in the midnight darkness. His clothing held no insignia or badges of rank; his weaponry was the same as that of the North Korean Army.

Illya Kuryakin, twenty-one years of age, a recently prompted Junior Sergeant in the specialist Spetsnaz division of the Soviet Union Army did not exist this night. The same went for his partner, Senior Sergeant Dmitri Svechnykov. Capture was not a consideration. Success or death were the only options.

Illya and Dmitri had worked countless of covert missions together and now all the seemingly impossible ones came to them.

On paper the mission was an easy one – retrieve a Russian MIG pilot who had been shot down over South Korean held territory four hours earlier. However, there were three major problems.

One - the Soviet Union wasn't meant to have any military personnel fighting in Korea, particularly on the North Korean side, considering that they were fighting against a United Nations force. A United Nations that the USSR had helped establish. Any proof that they were indeed aiding the North Korean's would be a crippling embarrassment and would further deteriorate relationships with the Western nations. The threat of nuclear war would become an even greater possibility.

Two – the nearest Soviet base was in Mukden, China, over 500 kilometres from the downed plane's location.

Three – the plane had crashed within twenty kilometres of a South Korean military garrison. The terrain was a mixture of mountainous forest and valleys of cultivated farmland; the probability that the pilot had been captured was high.

There were however, several things in their favour. The pilot was a thirty-year veteran fluent in Korean and German and could easily keep to his cover as a German mercenary whilst in the hands of the South Koreans. It wasn't a perfect cover, but it would cast enough doubt to stop the UN, and more importantly, the Americans, from taking any action against the USSR. The military garrison was small and remote – they wouldn't transport the pilot to a UN base until the following day at the earliest. The final bit of good fortune was that Illya and Dmitri were already stationed at the Mukden base on a routine training exercise.

Six hours after the plane had crashed Illya and Dmitri were rappelling down from a Chinese military helicopter ten klicks from the suspected crash site. After a reconnaissance of the area and the garrison, they'd been able to confirm that the pilot had been captured. Dmitri had ascertained that a full retrieval was possible if the pilot was uninjured and they had planned accordingly. Illya had spent an hour placing plastic explosive charges in strategic areas around the garrison. He'd had to forego two or three preferred locations as the risk was too great of being detected. The explosives would serve as a diversion and as a means of cover for Dmitri's and the pilots escape.

When Illya returned to the sniper nest he'd filled Dmitri in to the location of the explosives and pointed out the locations he'd had to deviate from. With a nod of approval Dmitri left to extract the pilot. Illya tracked him with the rifle scope as best he could in the darkness as Dmitri took a circular route around the garrison. With the light that came from the garrison, Illya was able to spot Dmitri as he entered from the opposite side and disappear behind one of only two wooden buildings. The rest of the camp was made up of tents.

They had always worked like this. Quickly and efficiently, with few words between them. Each did what needed to be done depending on their strengths. Dmitri had spotted the potential in the seething youngest who had arrived in the unit with fresh scars on his back. Dmitri became the father figure Illya so desperately needed. He was a hard taskmaster, constantly pushing Illya to his limits, physically and mentally, but tempering the punishing training with frequent praise. A word, a nod of the head, a hand on the shoulder, was all it took to reward Illya. His outbursts of rage were acknowledged and were redirected, to be used more constructively.

When Dmitri chose Illya from all the other recruits to join him on a solo mission, Illya for the first time since he was a child, had felt a wave of pride and accomplishment wash over him. He'd then proceeded to spend the next hour vomiting from nerves and the pressure of needing to succeed.

The mission had gone off without a hitch.

Illya's confidence in himself and his skills grew with each passing mission. Even at his relatively young age, Illya was now a seasoned member of the respected and often feared Spetsnaz.

Illya stayed focused on the building Dmitri had disappeared into. Long minutes ticked by. When Dmitri reappeared, Illya detonated the explosives. Confusion reigned in the makeshift garrison as vehicles and buildings exploded. The wooden building Dmitri had run out of was consumed in flames and spread to the nearest row of tents. A burning jeep had somersaulted into the mess tent, trapping soldiers inside. The sound of the explosion was replaced by yelling and the intermittent firing of guns as the Koreans looked for an invading force, or an enemy they could target. A few were trying to put out the flames or rescue comrades trapped beneath burning tents and vehicles. As Dmitri made his way through the ruined camp, Illya opened fire, targeting those who were in Dmitri's path or posed any threat to his partner.

It didn't concern Illya that Dmitri was alone. Their earlier reconnaissance had pinpointed where the pilot was being held, both men were fluent in Korean, and the soldiers had eagerly talked amongst themselves about their captured foe. What they were unable to find out was if the pilot was injured and if so how badly. If the pilot was in no condition to escape, then Dmitri would have given him a quick death. The double explosives Illya had set on the building would have ensured the body would be too badly damaged for any investigative examination.

Dmitri was almost clear of the garrison with only a few more metres of open ground to cover when he suddenly stumbled and fell. Illya shot the soldiers who had been giving chase, wounding two and killing the other two. His heart pounded in his chest as Dmitri pushed himself to his feet and staggered forward, finally making it to the bush covered land that ran along the northern edge of the garrison. As Dimitri disappeared from view, Illya continued to fire, discouraging any pursuit.

Illya evaluated the chaos that still reigned, he shot an officer who was attempting to organise the alarmed soldiers. He then killed the six soldiers who left the garrison to check on the two soldiers Illya had wounded earlier.

 _"Red Dragon, do you copy?"_

The hiss of the radio made Illya jerk in surprise. They had been ordered to maintain radio silence until the mission had been completed and the air extraction was confirmed. For Dmitri to break that command did not bode well. Illya took a deep breath before he replied back in the same language – Korean.

"This is Red Dragon."

 _"I'm going to have to cancel our reservation."_

Illya's blood ran cold. Dmitri had confirmed he was badly injured and would be unable to make it back to the hill.

"I will pick you up. I have time." He replied, his voice void of the emotion that was surging through him.

 _"That would be appreciated,"_ came the reply after a long pause. _"I'm about halfway down the road."_

Illya dismantled the sniper rifle, quickly and efficiently, before placing it all into a rucksack and shouldered the bag. Dmitri was approximately 500 metres from the treeline where the land had once been cleared in an attempt to farm it, but had been allowed to revert back to nature. Young trees and bushes had reclaimed the land.

Guided only by his eerie sense of direction and with the surefootedness of a mountain goat Illya quickly travelled the distance and was at Dmitri's side within minutes.

"It's me," he called out quietly as he approached the older man. Dmitri was sat against a small outcrop of rocks; large dense bushes hid the garrison from view. Even the light from the still burning tents and buildings barely penetrated through the bushes.

"You do know it's not natural for humans to see in the dark?" Dmitri joked as Illya kneeled down beside him.

It was an old joke. Illya couldn't explain how he could locate someone in the darkness. He had the same night vision as everyone else, but he just had a sense of where everything was. As with his unnatural speed and strength, belied by his tall, lean frame, Dmitri had just accepted this phenomenon as being part of Illya. Dmitri had never viewed Illya as a freak. He took what he considered to be gifts and taught Illya how to use them, to take advantage of them.

"You are wounded?" Illya ignored the joke as he always did and got straight to the point.

"Yes." Dmitri said. "It's a mortal wound, Illya." Both men knew what that meant. Just like the pilot, no physical evidence could be left behind that could implicate the Soviet Union – no matter how remote the chances of a link being established.

"The pick-up point is only five kilometres from here." Illya shrugged off his rucksack and pulled out their limited medical supplies. "I will carry you …"

"No." Dmitri shook his head. "The helicopter will take two hours to get to us, Illya. I will have bled out by then…"

"We will chance it," Illya interrupted. He pulled a torch from his belt and shone the beam over Dmitri as he patted the man down, looking for the wound.

"Stomach." Dmitri informed him.

Illya ripped open Dmitri's shirt and froze. He stared down at the gaping wound just under the other man's sternum in horror. The blood that still pumped steadily from the wound looked more black than red in the dim glow of the torch beam. It was also an exit wound. Dmitri had been shot in the back. Illya placed the torch on Dmitri's thigh and pulled out a dressing, pushing it against the wound in a desperate attempt to keep the deceitful blood from escaping any further.

"Illya," Dmitri said gently, "I'm paralysed. The bullet must have nicked my spinal cord. I've lost the feeling in my legs and my arms over the last few minutes."

"No." Illya shook his head in denial. "No, I will get you back home. They will fix you. You will be fine."

"I'm dying. You know this. You must complete the mission for us. Return home and make your report."

"Dmitri … I…,"

"I know, Illya," Dmitri replied sadly. "It has been a great honour to watch you become a fine young man and an excellent soldier. You will be my legacy, Illya. I am so very proud of you," Dmitri's voice broke on the last few words. He took a shallow breath. "You know what you must do for me, for the mission?"

"There must be another way?" Illya's voice was rough with anguish. He knew there wasn't. The dressing he had pressed against the wound was already drenched in blood and Dmitri's breath hitched with each intake of air. The risk of discovery grew with each passing second.

"Lean forward, Illya, so that I can say goodbye," Dmitri requested, ignoring the question. Illya obeyed. He closed his eyes against the sting of tears as Dmitri kissed his forehead. An affection bestowed upon a cherished child by a loving father. "Do not seek revenge. Call for the helicopter and go straight to the pick-up point." Dmitri instructed. "Those are my last orders to you. Do not disobey them."

Illya nodded. He pulled his pistol from his holster and the silencer from his belt. His hands shook so badly that it took several attempts to screw the silencer onto the pistol.

"You're destined for great things, Illya. Never forget that. Contact that KGB Major who's been trying to recruit you. It's time you moved on to bigger things," Dmitri advised.

"Thank you," Illya whispered out. "For everything. I will make you proud."

"I am already proud of you, Illya." Dmitri replied. "I will always be proud of you."

They sat for a moment in silence.

"It is time," Dmitri quietly declared.

Illya took several deep breaths and wiped a hand over his face, unknowingly replacing the escaped tears with Dmitri's blood. He ruthlessly pushed all the emotions coursing through him deep down inside until he felt numb. The anger within him grew, pushing against the invisible wall that currently kept it contained. But its insidious nature hollowed out the other emotions that struggled to be felt, filling the space with more boiling, red rage.

With a rock steady hand Illya pointed the pistol at Dmitri and with a short nod from the older man - shot him cleanly between the eyes.

He unscrewed the silencer and re-holstered the pistol. He pushed himself up from his knees to a crouch. He pulled Dmitri's rucksack from his shoulders and removed his belt and holster. He then moved so he could wrap his hands around Dmitri's ankles and pulled the man until he was lying flat.

Illya dug into his own pack and pulled out a bottle of accelerant and emptied it onto Dmitri. He threw the empty bottle onto Dmitri's shins.

With the acrid smell of the accelerant filling his lungs, Illya pulled the radio from his belt and turned it to the required frequency. "Dragon requires wings. I repeat, Dragon requires wings." After only a moment's pause, he received confirmation. He clipped the radio back on his belt and pulled a box of matches from his pocket.

He lit one and watched it burn half way down before throwing it onto Dmitri. The accelerant caught with a whoosh and Dmitri's body was engulfed in flames. He looked down at the burning body and anger stirred in his veins. Dmitri had deserved a more fitting end. Illya looked towards the garrison and vengeance flared in his heart. His fingers twitched towards his pistol. He closed his eyes. The red and orange flames of Dmitri's pitiful funeral pyre danced behind his eyelids.

 _"Do not seek revenge. Those are my last orders to you. Do not disobey them."_

"Yes, sir," Illya opened his eyes and turned. Without a backwards glance he made his way towards the pick-up point, as ordered.


	3. Accidental

With grateful thanks as always to my beta, Jay, who makes my stories readable and to Trish for her invaluable help in bypass an uncooperative muse.

And to you, dear reader, please accept my sincerest apologies for the long delay between postings. It has been a herculean struggle to get this story written and as you will discover, it shouldn't have taken so much effort. I hope you feel that it was worth the wait.

* * *

 **3\. Accidental**

 _USSR Power Boat Championships 1958_

The port city of Severodvinsk sat at the head of an inlet on the Northern Dvina River with its eastern side stretching along the coastline of the White Sea. The golden sandy beaches and the high summer temperatures made the city a popular holiday destination. The population doubled during July and August as workers escaped the harsh confines of the factories or the brutal hours of working the land for a few days. It was also a favourite with many among the ruling elite.

This year the city was packed to bursting as competitors gathered from all over the Soviet Republics to compete in the Annual Powerboat championship. The city was decorated with flowers and brightly coloured cloth, there were street performers on every corner, fire-eaters, jugglers and dancing bears, the atmosphere was one of anticipation and enjoyment.

The weather had also added to the excitement, as the region was in its fourth week of continued sunshine, the temperature reaching over 25 degrees centigrade each day.

The week-long competition was starting to wind down with just the team race to go. Illya Kuryakin had narrowly missed out on a gold medal in the individual endurance race the day before, giving the six-time champion, Vladimir Savchenko, some much needed competition and the race some intense excitement.

Much to Illya's distress, and the amusement of his best friend and teammate, Yuri Lebedev, he had become the centre of attention with the spectating crowd. Tall, young and handsome, as opposed to the barrel-chested, short Savchenko, Illya had been constantly stopped and congratulated. He had his hand shaken, and his back slapped with good wishes and praise and, to his absolutely horror and embarrassment, his backside fondled with more salacious intent.

"It isn't funny, Yuri," he groused as the two men entered the competitors dock. "One of them pinched me!"

"Illya, for goodness sake, you're only twenty-seven and women are throwing themselves at you. Pretty ones at that." Yuri laughed. "Bed a couple of them at least. Have some fun."

"Women aren't objects of fun," Illya replied acidly. "They should be treated with respect. If men want such… such pleasures, then they should get married."

"Illya, my friend," Yuri said. "You are a noble and honourable man. But times are changing. Some women don't want to go to their marriage bed a virgin, to only experience one man. It doesn't make them whor…easy, Illya, just young women making their own choices of who they want to sleep with. Like say, a dashing young KGB officer, who caused one of the major upsets in this competition."

"It's not going to happen, Yuri." Illya replied as he stepped from the dock and landed lightly onto the bow of his power boat. The boat bobbed in the water as he turned to look up at Yuri. "You know that."

Yuri took a step closer to the edge of the dock. "So this is what it feels like to be you?" He asked. He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled broadly.

Illya looked at him with a puzzled frown. "What are you talking about?"

"Being taller than everyone else and making them look up at you."

Illya shook his head in exasperation. "It's not as if you're short."

"Exactly. At six foot three I should be the tallest man in the room and the most handsome." Yuri stated with no hint of false modesty. "But no, I have to go and make friends with a sunflower to put me in the shade."

Illya spluttered with outrage. "A sunflower!" he growled.

"Yes, a sunflower." Yuri nodded sagely. "Surely you could see the resemblance between yourself and the fields of sunflowers we passed through on our way to Krasnodar last month? Large golden heads carried on spindly looking stalks…" Yuri took a hasty step back from the edge of the dock as Illya made a grab for his leg. "Now, now Illya, we're supposed to be getting the boats ready for the race," Yuri laughed, backing away as Illya pulled himself on to the dock, using the bobbing boat as leverage.

"Which we will do. Once I have thrown you into the water for your insolence."

"Insolence? Where did you learn such a … Ooof!" Yuri landed with a thud on the wooden dock. Illya stood over him grinning. "How can you move so fast?" Yuri wheezed out.

"Not so much like a sunflower now?" Illya held his hand out and helped hurl Yuri to his feet.

"Okay, you're not like a sunflower," Yuri conceded. "Hey! What are you doing?"

Illya spun Yuri round, trapping his arms by his side and lifted Yuri off his feet and walked towards the edge of the dock. Yuri struggled against the hold but couldn't break Illya's grip.

"You do know it's not natural for someone to be so strong," Yuri grunted out as he tried to overbalance them.

"Perhaps you are just weak. Like a sunflower stalk!" Illya scoffed.

"Illya Kuryakin! Put my husband down this instance!" Came a feminine voice from behind him.

"Ha! Now you're in for it, my friend," Yuri said cheerfully.

With a sigh, Illya loosened his grip and Yuri let out a startled yelp as he plunged into the water.

"Illya!"

He looked down at the short, dark-haired woman who now stood at his side at the edge of the dock, her hands rubbing across her swollen pregnant belly.

"He called me a sunflower, Anja." Illya defended grumpily.

"Push him in, Anja," Yuri yelled encouragingly as he nosily treaded water.

"Yuri! Don't be mean." Anja scolded. "Have you told, Illya?"

"Told me what?" Illya asked suspiciously.

"If the baby's a boy we're going to name him after you," Anja replied as she threaded her arm through his.

"After me? But… I… Thank you." He smiled shyly down at her, gently took her hand in his, and bent to kiss it.

"Hey! Unhand my wife!" Yuri called out in mock outrage. "I'm not sure naming the baby after you is such a good idea. He'll get teased because of it."

"Oh, how so?" Illya asked as he tucked Anja's hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Well, Sunflower is an unusual name," Yuri chuckled.

"Very funny," Illya replied sourly.

"Excuse me, Captain Kuryakin. I apologise for the intrusion," a voice broke in. Illya and Anja turned to look at the speaker. A young man barely out of his teens stood before them. He was tall but still had muscle to pack onto his gangly frame. "I have been tasked to inform you that the race will be commencing an hour earlier," he spluttered out in one hurried breath.

"Why the change in the timetable?" Illya looked down at his watch. "We only have half an hour to do the checks and complete the practice runs."

"I am sorry, sir," the youngster replied, looking horrified that Illya had question him. "There are reports of a storm moving in from the North and the Committee are worried about possible …erm… swells making racing dangerous."

Illya grunted at the reply as he turned to look North. The horizon was a thin line of black, edging its way under the clear blue sky. The heatwave was about to come to an abrupt end. The Barents Sea was notorious for its unpredictable weather. Although the racing had taken place on the White Sea, an inlet that was sheltered by the land surrounding it, it was still at the mercy of the Barents whim.

"Illya, what is it?" Yuri called out.

"There is a storm moving in. They have moved the race forward an hour."

Illya gave a curt nod to the young messenger, who hurried away.

"Damn!" Yuri swam towards the boats and pulled himself up into one, make the boat rock wildly.

"Is the storm dangerous?" Anja queried.

"If the swell gets to high it could damage the boats," Illya replied as he helped pull Yuri from the boat back onto the dock.

"But they would stop the race if it got too dangerous, wouldn't they?" She queried worriedly.

"Of course," Yuri reassured her. He bent to unlace his boots as a large puddle formed around him. "They would not endanger two of the KGB's best officers," he grinned. "Besides, the race will be done by the time the storm hits."

Anja smiled down at Yuri, but the worry in her eyes didn't disappear. Illya looked back at the advancing storm, seeming all the more menacing. He feared Yuri would be wrong on both counts.

TMFU

The full force of the storm hit as Illya and Yuri approached the head of the inlet to make the wide turn back to the finish line. They were ahead of the other five two-boat teams, but not by much. The advancing wind had already stirred the sea into rough waves causing the boats to slap down hard after cresting over the increasingly higher waves.

With the storm now overhead, the finishing line was no longer visible as rain hammered down from the sky in violent torrents whipped into a frenzy of stinging viciousness by the howling wind. Illya struggled to keep control of his boat as he accelerated to come along side Yuri.

"Yuri!" He yelled, but the wind snatched the word away. Yuri looked across at him anyway, having seen or sensed the presence of the other boat. Illya tried to gesture that they should throttle back, and head for the western shore. It was too dangerous to continue. Yuri nodded and gave a thumbs up and Illya was thankful that they had served together so long that they understood each other even without words. Illya curled his hand around the throttle and started to ease back when the boat bounce wildly as it hit a wave. He yanked the steering and felt the boat shudder, the grind of snapping metal was so loud he heard it clearly over the wind and the rain. He could no nothing as the boat veered towards Yuri bouncing uncontrollably. As it crested over another wave, the wind caught the nose of the boat and it came crashing down onto Yuri.

TMFU

Illya turned his head at the sound of the door opening, running a hand over his face to wipe away the tears that had rolled down his cheeks. The force of the two boats colliding had thrown Illya into the churning sea. He'd tried to swim back towards the broken wreckage, to search for Yuri, to pull him free, but something had ignited one of the fuel tanks and both boats had exploded into a fireball.

He'd scream Yuri's name as he tried to battle his way through the surging waves and pieces of burning debris. Three of the competitor boats had flicked into view, their way guided by the dying flames already being extinguished by the driving rain. They'd pulled him from the sea, ignoring his pleas to search for Yuri. Illya tried to jump back into the sea to get to Yuri, but he'd been struck on the head from behind and he'd known nothing until he'd woken up in a side room at the city's hospital.

He'd been lucky the doctor had told him. A broken arm and a concussion caused from the blow to his head. Illya had spent hours going over what he'd done wrong. He shouldn't have allowed the exhilaration of racing to override his worries about the storm. His best friend and partner since his first days with the KGB was now dead. Yuri hadn't distanced himself when Illya's temper had eventually shown itself. He'd just shrugged and accepted it. He'd never been afraid of Illya. Now he was dead, because Illya had failed him.

Anja slipped quietly into the room, a hand placed almost protectively over her belly. Her face was lined with grief, eyes rimmed red.

Illya wanted to beg her for forgiveness. He wanted to kneel at her feet and plead for mercy. But the words were stuck, like thorns, in his throat. He shook his head in dismay. Anja let out a sob as she gave a small nod and retreated from the room, neither of them uttering a word.

Illya looked up at the ceiling as he fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He knew there would be no child called Illya with an indulgent 'uncle'. The child would be honoured with the name of the father it would never know. Besides, who named a child after the man who murdered its father?

Illya pushed the agonising emotions away, his chest heaving as he fought to lock them away, to bury them deep inside.

Changing him forever.


	4. Betrayal

Betrayal - Investigating an information leak for the Stasi, Illya finds his life in danger.

* * *

1961 – November - East Berlin

Illya returned to consciousness slowly. He opened his eyes, only to squeeze them shut again as the painful throbbing in his head intensified. A groan was forced from him as orange and red splashes of colour danced behind his eyelids, the outline of a multi-paned window ghosting alongside the nauseating psychedelic display.

As full awareness returned he realised he was laying on a hard, cold floor. He warily opened his eyes to confirm his suspicions. He blinked away tears at the stabbing pain caused by the sunlight flooding in from several large windows. He raised a hand to wipe away the unwelcome moisture only to have it stopped by a painful tug and a clang of metal upon metal.

Illya rolled onto his back and looked down at his hands. Shackles encircled his wrists, secured by new padlocks, the silver of the locks shiny against the dull black of the manacles. A thick chain was attached to each restraint and had been looped around a wide pipe that ran the length of the wall eight inches above the floor.

He gingerly pulled himself into a sitting position using the pipe to haul himself upright as the room started to spin alarmingly. It took a few minutes for the world to right itself again and for Illya to convince his stomach not to eject its contents over the concrete floor.

With his back leaning uncomfortably against the pipe and the chain to his left, Illya was able to reach his head with his left hand. He grunted in pain as his hand pressed against the back of his head, his hair sticky with congealed blood. After a few moments probing the wound he was satisfied that it was nothing serious and although his head still pounded painfully, it would not impede his effectiveness.

He wiped the blood from his fingers onto his trousers and looked down at the manacles, long fingers quickly and efficiently assessed the probability of freeing himself from the restraints. He snarled in frustration at his predicament, knowing that he wouldn't be able to break free with just brute force and picking locks was not something he excelled at, even if he could find something to use as a pick.

He took several deep breaths in an attempt to control his rising anger, to clear his mind of the insidious effects his rage could wrought. He pulled back the left sleeve of his tan jacket to reveal his watch and noted the time. He'd been unconscious for several hours. The German traitor he'd been tasked to find and interrogate would be heading for their clandestine meeting in a little over two hours.

Illya shifted to the right and started to explore the pipe the chain was wrapped round. He cursed himself for not acting sooner. He'd quickly determined who the traitor was; the man had had the audaciousness of volunteering to act as his Stasi liaison during the investigation.

But the German had fallen into the trap many others had made. He'd assumed Illya was all brawn, little more than a KGB attack dog who could be lured into chasing his own tail. It was something Illya hated, to be so unfairly labelled, just because he was tall and strong. Even his own comrades had considered his strength and speed as bordering on unnatural and classed his rages as nothing more than a product of a simple, feral mind.

Even though he was the KGB's top agent, every one of his missions successfully completed, from stopping defectors to infiltrating groups and organisations, he was still judged on his physical attributes and not his intelligence.

He worked hard to keep in good physical condition. Judo and Sambo kept him agile. The KGB obstacle course and weight room kept him strong. His lean frame belied the amount of muscle packed onto it. He was fast because he ran, sprints, long-distance, it didn't matter. Whenever he wasn't on a mission, he was training.

His height he could do nothing about. It exasperated him to be referred to as a giant when he was only one or two inches taller than other agents.

In the game of chess you had to plan your moves ahead, it was the same as being a spy. You had to be observant; you had to know your quarry. To infiltrate a group or organisation you had to understand their ethos. To get close to someone you had to have knowledge of their passion, whatever it maybe, fashion, art history, mathematics. You had to know enough to make your undercover persona believable.

Illya loved to learn. He was allowed access to banned literature and music when it was mission essential. He would be tutored by eminent professors to ensure his knowledge would result in a successful undercover mission. He was the most knowledgeable field agent in communications and computer programming. It was why he was such a successful agent.

When the Stasi requested the KGB's help in plugging a damaging information leak, Illya was assigned the mission. He'd done his research, narrowing down the traitor to three possible suspects before he'd even made his way to Berlin.

On his arrival at the Stasi office Hans Schmidt had cordially offered to partner up with him during his visit. It was common for the KGB to work with the Stasi and as a senior officer Illya had devised the cover of conducting a routine inspection of the Berlin office. It would allow him virtually full access to any documentation he wished to exam and his questions about the Stasi officers and their working practices would not raise any suspicion. Resentment perhaps, but Illya was well used to dealing with that.

Schmidt's eagerness to help a visiting KGB officer could be seen as an attempt to curry favour, with the possible hope of obtaining some kind of status or promotion over his peers. It certainly wasn't an uncommon occurrence. The fact that the man was on Illya's list of suspects made his actions seem highly suspicious. Although he hated having to work with others Illya allowed Schmidt the "honour" of working alongside him.

Schmidt was a short man with a receding hairline and greying hair. He had been with the Stasi since its inception, specialising in infiltration. After the death of his wife the previous year, after thirty years of marriage, he was transferred to oversee informant information, a crucial, but largely office based position. He was a gregarious man and talked almost non-stop, Illya had destroyed three guest quarters in an attempt not to beat the smile from the irritating German.

Illya, had for once, used the general assumptions made about him to his advantage. With nothing more than a few curt no's and some blank stares, he had nudged Schmidt into believing that he had the upper hand, that Illya wasn't smart enough to realise he was being manoeuvred away from areas Schmidt didn't want him poking around in. He had hinted that the Stasi inspection was a reward for his dutiful service. Although fluent in German, Illya had spoken the language hesitantly and in a heavy Russian accent, pretending not to understand certain words and phrases.

He'd been afraid he'd overplayed his hand, concerned that Schmidt would see through his ploy of down playing his intelligence. Schmidt though, had fallen for it, like so many others did, judging him by his physicality and not stopping to consider that Illya was far more intelligent than them.

As Illya pondered his predicament his hands never stopped moving over the pipe he was chained too. It was a thick pipe, larger than his hand span. It had once been painted white to match the rough concrete block walls, but the paint was flaking away with large brown patches of rust dotting the pipe like some contagious disease.

He worked his hands over the pipe slowly and methodically testing every inch as he slowly shuffled further and further down the length of the pipe. He had encountered a weak patch here and there which he had been able to push his fingers into, the surrounding metal had proven to be sound and he had only managed to cut his fingers in an attempt to bore a way through the pipe.

His luck was running out as he shifted to the right once more, his hip bumping against a joint in the pipe that was attached to the floor. Although his frustration was rising he still carefully moved his hands over the pipe working his way to the joint.

An inch or two before the joint his fingers pushed through a patch of rust that quickly crumbled under his exploring hands to grown larger and larger. With hands bleeding from a multitude of cuts and covered in rust he was blocked from freeing himself by a curve of metal no more than three inches' wide that held firm under his probing fingers.

With a growl of annoyance, he slotted the chain into the hole he had made until it was flush against the solid piece of metal. He swung himself around and braced his feet against the wall. He wiped as much blood from his hands as he could on his trousers and then wrapped the chain around them. He pulled the chain against the pipe with all the strength that he possessed.

Illya cursed vehemently in every language he knew when the stubborn piece of metal still held after several minutes of strength sapping effort. He wiped his hands over his face, unwittingly smearing blood across it, as he fought to control his ragged breathing. He could feel the rage at his inability to free himself swirling around inside him. It pushed at his dwindling self-control as the need to release the terrible pressure grew within him. He stared down at the pipe for a moment, forcing himself to concentrate on the problem and to ignore the trembling in his fingers.

After a minute's scrutiny, Illya fitted the chain back into the gap. He wrapped the chain around his hands and wrists leaving only a couple of inches of loose chain either side of the metal. He shifted so that he could brace his feet against the wall again and leaned back, pulling the chain tight. This time though as he pulled the chain, he started a sawing motion, metal pipe and chain ground harshly against each other, filling the warehouse with its tortured protest.

All his concentration centred on keeping the chain taut and sawing through the pipe, when the metal finally succumbed to the onslaught he was unable to keep his balance and slammed hard onto the concrete floor. He lay there for a few seconds in stunned surprise before scrambling to his feet.

Illya checked his watch again – he had just over an hour to try to find Schmidt and trail him to his meeting point. He had more than enough evidence to bring Schmidt in for questioning and the German wouldn't be able to hold out for long once Illya had him in the interrogation room. But Illya didn't like relying on confessions. He wanted solid, irrefutable evidence; he needed to know for certain that the right person paid for their crimes. His plan was to catch Schmidt in the act – not only would the German be caught red-handed, but Illya would also have the added achievement of catching Western infiltrators. Such a coup would mean his educational requests would be automatically approved.

There was however, one immediate problem to achieving his aim – the large manacles and heavy chain would be impossible to hide and would draw unwanted attention. He needed to get them off and fast. He gave the room he was in a more thorough examination. The room had, at one point, been a factory floor of some sort. The equipment had long been removed or scavenged and aside from some broken glass and walls strewn with Western propaganda graffiti, there was nothing that could help him break the padlocks or chain.

He was about to do a quick search of the rest of the building when footsteps made him pause at the doorway. He moved so his back was against the wall, his hands wrapping around the chain, ready to be used as a weapon. He listened intently as footsteps echoed in the empty building whoever had entered, there was currently only one of them. There was a sudden misstep followed by a loud curse.

Schmidt.

Illya's hands tightened around the chain as his mind raced with possible strategies. He'd allowed Schmidt to bringing him to this part of the city, in the hope of narrowing down where Schmidt met with his Western collaborators. Schmidt's excuse was to check on the welfare of some informants who had failed to report in for some time. The recently built "Anti-Fascist Protective Wall" cast an ominous presence over the streets, forever dividing the city. It had been the first time Illya had seen the wall up close and he'd wisely kept his opinion to himself.

He'd just stepped from the cramped confines of the Trabant, made all the smaller by Schmidt's ceaseless commentary on whatever came into the man's mind, and was about to question why they had stopped in front of what appeared to be an abandon factory area, when pain had exploded in the back of his skull and the world went black.

The fact that Schmidt hadn't killed him, but had gone to the effort of dragging him into one of the buildings and chaining him to a pipe seemed to apply Schmidt still required him for some reason. What that was currently eluded Illya. As the footsteps came ever closer, Illya moved quietly back to the pipe and sat on it. To hide the hole and the fact that he was no longer chained to it he angled his left leg to ensure the deception could not be seen by Schmidt. He leaned slightly forward, perfectly balanced to launch an attack, or to dodge one if he had misread the other man's intentions.

"Major Kuryakin," Schmidt greeted cheerfully as he stepped into the room. "Still where I left you I see." The man smiled smugly. Illya felt his left hand start to tremble as he fought to keep his anger in check. Schmidt was so certain that he controlled the situation he hadn't even bothered to pull his gun from his holster – even as a precaution.

"What is meaning of this?" Illya snapped out in broken German, keeping up the façade of not being what he truly was. He rattled the chain for added effect. "I will make sure you lose job. You will be sent to gulag for this insult."

Schmidt laughed. "My dear, Major, by this evening I will be in West Berlin," he moved closer and squatted down, keeping just out of reach of Illya – if he'd still been chained to the pipe, "as will you."

"What do you mean?"

"I have sold you, Major." Schmidt stood up and took a step back. "To my Western partners. They were very interested when I told them that a KGB officer had come to do an inspection. They were even more interested when I told them your name."

"Sold me? You are traitor." Illya spat on Schmidt's shoes. Schmidt's overconfidence surprised Illya. Schmidt must have lost all reason if he thought he could kidnap a KGB officer to appease his Western masters. "The American's cannot be trusted. They will betray you, like you betray country." Illya struggled to remain in character. Rage slowly started to burned its way through Illya's self-control. The handing over of sensitive Stasi documentation was one thing. The act was an embarrassment to the authorities, but had yet to endanger anyone's life. But Schmidt was now willing to turnover a senior KGB officer, putting Illya's life very much on the line with the potential of weeks, if not months of torture. He would not betray his country easily.

"It's not just the American's or the British on the other side of the wall," Schmidt replied. "The French have many operatives in East Berlin." He boasted.

Illya was about to appeal to Schmidt to turn over the foreign spies, to reveal the holes in security. In return Illya would ensure that he would be allowed to retire from the Stasi, instead of being sent to a work camp or more probably, to face a firing squad.

But Schmidt, as was his way, continued to talk.

"I confess; I don't know why they seem so interested in you. I tried to access your file, but it is classified. All I could find out was that your father was a traitor. Schmidt smiled. "How unfortunate that his son is about to do the same thing, no matter how involuntary." Illya clenched his fists as his rage pushed further at his self-control.

"You know nothing," he spat out.

Schmidt shrugged. "It doesn't really matter why they are interested in you. They seem to think you have a lot of information you can be … persuaded to share." Schmidt shook his head. "I doubt you have much to share. No matter. They asked for you and they have agreed to my price – a new life in Paris."

"Schmidt," Illya managed to grind out. "This will only end in your death. Give up the French operatives. They will not help you when you are stood in front of a firing squad."

Schmidt just scoffed, failing to notice that Illya now spoke in perfect German. "No one will notice that we are missing until sometime tomorrow. By then, I will be on my way to France and you Major, well, I don't know where you will be. Perhaps you might one day be free if you cooperate with your new masters." Schmidt suggested. He looked Illya up and down. "With a traitorous father and a whore for a mother, Russia …" His words dried up as Illya stood up, the chain dangling across his thighs. Schmidt took a hasty step back his hand fumbling for his gun, only for Illya to advance on him.

Illya could feel the terrible pressure inside his head as he lost all reason to his rage. He wound the chain around Schmidt's neck and pulled it tight. The anger and frustration of the last few days that had boiled and burned away inside now erupted. The German's endless talking, his constant jibes that he thought went over Illya's head, that Illya was less than human, the filthy assumptions about his mother, it was too much.

With a roar against the pressure in his head he pulled the chain tighter and tighter only vaguely aware of Schmidt struggling against the brutal onslaught. Then suddenly the pressure vanished. Illya loosened his hold on the chain and Schmidt fell lifeless to the floor. His face contorted into a death mask of terror.

Illya bent down and searched Schmidt's pockets, finding a set of keys that fitted the padlocks in the man's jacket pocket. He felt no remorse at the violent death he had caused; traitors did not warrant such concerns. His mind was only on completing the mission, and to do that he needed to act quickly. Schmidt's foreign allies would be hidden amongst the informants he oversaw. Every last one of them would need to be arrested and interrogated, to separate the patriotic from the foreign spies.

Throwing the chain beside Schmidt, Illya walked from the building.


	5. Deliberate

5\. Deliberate

 _1962 – late December - Moscow_

It was cold in Moscow, colder than it usually was for December. Winter had arrived early and its end was still months away. The city's streets hadn't been free of snow for months and the temperature at night regularly fell to a brutal -25C. Illya though, had endured much colder. The military orphanage he had been sent to after his mother's death had been located in Siberia. It was frequently cut off from the neighbouring town by deep snow and would often reach -40C for weeks on end.

He trudged up the apartment block stairs, nestling his purchases in the crook of his arm as he unwound his scarf and pulled off his hat. He was currently on a simple surveillance assignment. It was something that could be handled by junior agents, but after two months spent recovering from his last mission, Illya had accepted the assignment without complaint.

Apart from placing bugs in the suspected dissident's apartment, and tracking devices into his clothes and shoes, Illya had the luxury of monitoring his communications equipment from a small, but warm apartment across the street. Oleg Kuznetsov had assigned junior agents to follow the suspect when he ventured from his home.

Illya knew this assignment was a reward from Oleg. It was his handler's way of saying that he was glad Illya hadn't died. Although badly wounded, he had made it back from a successful mission and Oleg wasn't ready to put him back in harm's way just yet.

The apartment that had been "appropriated" while the surveillance took place was home to an elderly woman, Anna Verenich. She was eighty-nine and stooped over with age and rheumatism. She had lost her husband and children to the brutality of revolution and two world wars. Illya had vetoed any action to forcibly remove her fearful that her meagre pension would not stretch to a room in a boarding house and provide her with food. The payment from the State to reimburse her for the "inconvenience" would be slow in coming, if it got paid out at all and didn't find its way into some official's pocket.

Illya had gently explained to Anna that if she stayed, she would be unable to leave the apartment without a KGB officer going with her. Her every move and every word would be scrutinised.

Anna had smiled at him and patted his arm with a weathered hand. "My son, I live on the tenth floor. I can no longer manage all those stairs. My neighbours take pity on an old woman and kindly fetch what I need. I am sure they will enjoy the respite while my strong, handsome, great grandnephew visits." She'd finished with a wink.

Illya had played along with the cover she had invented for him. He certainly didn't believe it was to aid the KGB, but was for an old, lonely woman to pretend, just for a little while, that she had a connection to the world that was uncaringly passing her by outside the confines of her apartment block. It also had the added benefit of allaying the neighbours fears and suspicions.

Anna doted on him as if he were a real relation. Illya found himself enjoying her company. She had a gift for storytelling and would regale him with all manner of tales from her younger days, the days before the Revolution, of the Tsar, and the formation of the Soviet Union. Illya found himself drawn in by the stories of a time he had only been taught a State-sanctioned version of. She was silent when he required her to be, simply moving to sit in her armchair and reading while he worked. She also loved to cook. As the evenings drew in the small apartment would be filled with the aroma of a home cooked meal that would make Illya's mouth water with anticipation. The whole thing brought up bitter sweet memories of a time long past when Illya was the beloved son of loving parents.

As with all good things, it had to end. During his daily telephone report, Oleg had informed him that a new agent would replace him the next day. Illya was to ensure that the agent knew how to use the surveillance equipment and monitor his performance for the day and then report to headquarters by six o'clock that evening.

The new agent had arrived this morning. Konstantin Sokolov was a brash, arrogant man who was quick to inform Illya and Anna that his father was a high ranking official – a position that he would one day also achieve. Sokolov expected to become a KGB Major by the time he was thirty, the youngest ever, he boasted. He seemed unaware that he was talking to the current youngest ever KGB Major, who had achieved the rank when he was twenty-seven. Sokolov had less than three years to achieve three promotions. Even for a privileged son it would be near impossible to achieve.

Illya let the boasting wash over him. He had encountered many young agents with the same arrogance and although it annoyed him greatly. He held on to his temper with the knowledge that he too had been the son of a high ranking official and if his father had not fallen foul of one of Stalin's purges, would he also have become a privileged, entitled young man? Would he have grown up so confident in his superiority to those not so fortunate that he would have become arrogant and demeaning to those he felt beneath him? Illya fervently hoped that he would not have become like Sokolov, but a small part of him feared the possibility – to have his parents alive and healthy, to not have suffered as they had, Illya was uncertainly what his answer would be if he was granted the chance to find out.

What Illya couldn't ignore, however, was Sokolov's treatment of Anna. He had already chastised the younger agent twice for his disrespect and had been met with a sneer, but his orders had been temporarily obeyed. The third time it happened Illya's temper had flared and he had intended to discipline Sokolov physically. Anna had intercepted him, moving surprising quickly for one so old before he could reach the smirking agent. With her gnarled hand on his chest, she had suggested he take a walk to clear his head. The apartment was not big enough for three she had chuckled and it would give her and Sokolov time to get to know each other better. With a reluctant nod of agreement and snarled warning at Sokolov he had left the apartment and headed for the market.

Illya spent two hours buying provisions to ensure Anna's cupboards would be stocked for the next few days, as he was more than certain that Sokolov wouldn't think to replace the food he would undoubtedly expect the old woman to provide. Illya resolved to call on her every few days to bring further provisions and to reassure himself that all was well.

He was still mulling over the best course of action to take if he was sent on a new assignment and couldn't ensure that Anna was taken care of when he reached her apartment door. With a quick knock and calling out his name, he entered the apartment.

Upon entering Illya knew instantly that something was wrong. There was a subdued stillness in the room. Anna sat in her chair next to the fire with her head bent as she read from the book open on her lap, or least pretended to. Sokolov was at the surveillance equipment, headphones over his ears and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. He stared out of the window. Neither of them looked at Illya.

He placed the items he had bought on the counter and walked towards Anna. Even stood in front of her she did not look up.

"Anna," he said as he gently lifted her head with a finger under her chin. She still refused to meet his gaze. Her hand curled around his wrist as his thumb softly ghosted over her right cheek. A cheek that was unblemished when he had left the apartment but which was now red and swollen, mottled bruising already starting to show. Her grip tightened on his wrist.

"A silly old woman getting in the way," she said sadly, finally meeting his gaze. Illya patted her hand before gently, but firmly removing it from his wrist with trembling fingers. He turned to stare at Sokolov. The younger man had removed the headphones and was now stood stiffly next to the chair.

"You would strike an old woman?" Illya's fingers tapped a dangerous tattoo against his thigh.

"She should be more respectful," Sokolov snapped out.

As Illya started to move across the room Sokolov suddenly seemed to realise that he had crossed a very precarious line. That Illya hadn't just been trying to stamp his authority over a junior agent but truly believed in the fair treatment of all citizens, no matter what their status. Unfortunately, as Sokolov came to his senses, Illya had lost his to the rage burning through him.

Sokolov backed away from the advancing Illya, letting out a squeak of fright when his back hit the wall. Ilya grabbed him by the right arm. He pulled him away from the wall before brutally twisting it behind his back, with a hand on the back of his neck, almost bending him double, Illya forced the other man forward.

Ignoring the threats that spilled from Sokolov's mouth, Illya yanked the apartment door open. Sokolov screamed in fright as Illya picked up speed, dragging the frantically struggling man with him. As threats turned to pleas of mercy Illya hurled the other man up and over the wooden bannister and let go.

Sokolov's terrified scream abruptly cut off as he landed with an organ splitting thump on the ground floor.

"That was unwise," Anna said, standing a short distance behind Illya. He looked over the bannister and at the splayed body far below before turning to look at the old woman.

"Perhaps. But it is done now," he replied, all signs of his anger gone.

Anna nodded and headed back into the apartment, leaving the door open.

 **TMFU**

Oleg Kuznetsov stood next to the bannister outside the apartment of Anna Verenich and looked down as he gauged the distance Sokolov had fallen. The body had long since been removed. The sheet that had been used to cover the unfortunate agent had been more red than white. The large, congealing pool of blood that stained the tiles below, was barely visible from this high up. He turned to look at the silent man stood at his side.

"I do wish you would stop killing your partners, Kuryakin," he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapped one out and lit it. "The paperwork is quite tiresome." He added as he blew out a stream of smoke.

"He deserved it," Kuryakin replied indifferently.

Oleg looked at him in amusement. "A little severe for striking an old woman perhaps?"

"Also for his arrogance," Kuryakin corrected. "He would have done much worse later as was moved up the ranks. He would have brought shame and embarrassment to the KGB."

Oleg shrugged. Kuryakin was more than likely correct. He'd seen it happen many times in the past. Most would quietly resign and pursue a political career, buoyed by their father's name. Some however, found themselves up against honest and honourable agents who knew that the only way to stop their odious poison was to terminate them. Oleg had overseen more than one 'accident', to save the life of a good agent.

"His father may prove a problem. Although by all accounts he was not a favoured son. But, for appearances sake…" Oleg shrugged again.

"He slipped. It's not my fault he was clumsy."

"Yes. That's what the official report will state. These old buildings are very dangerous." Oleg tapped a foot against the smooth, but decidedly un-slippery, cement floor.

They stood silent for a few movements before Oleg sighed. "You're on administrative duty for three months. "

"Sir!" Kuryakin exclaimed in horror.

"If the father decides to investigate his son's death more vigorously, and manages to get a look at your file, it will lead to some very awkward questions." Oleg snapped. "Besides, I have some research for you to do that should keep you interested and out of trouble."

"Research?" Oleg smiled at Kuryakin's curiosity.

"Yes. A German scientists name has come up during some routine interceptions. The Americans appear to be trying to ascertain his whereabouts and I want to know why." As Oleg walked past the taller man to descend the stairs, he reached out and clasped the top of Illya's arm. "You cannot work alone for the rest of your career, Kuryakin. You must give new partners more than one day to get used to them."

He released his grip and headed down the stairs. "I will see you tomorrow. Eight o'clock sharp." He called up. He smiled as he watched Kuryakin move away from the bannister and enter the old woman's apartment. Kuryakin was a puzzling man. Capable of such brutal violence, but was beyond gentle with those that succeeded in touching something he tried to hide deep within him – a tender soul.

As he reached the street, Oleg pulled on his hat as the cold bitter wind attacked his exposed ears. He had called in another agent to take over the surveillance. An experience and seasoned agent, who had recently lost his beloved grandmother. Anna Verenich would be in good hands.

Illya Kuryakin though presented Oleg with a much bigger challenge. He was the KGB's best agent; his temper a powerful tool when wielded effectively. But Kuryakin seemed to be losing a part of himself to it with each year that past.

Oleg worried what Kuryakin's future would hold.


	6. The Last One

Napoleon Solo tugged at one shirt cuff, then the other as he leaned back into the plush upholstered armchair with an air of smug satisfaction. It was, of course, an attempt at misdirection. To make the man sitting opposite him think that Solo had the upper hand. That he was so supremely confident in the move he had just made it would make the other man pause to analyse the impact it would have.

Unfortunately, the move he had just made was with a knight, on a chessboard, and the man sat opposite him was a chess international master.

Looking up from the book he was reading next to the chessboard and giving it a brief look, the other man made his move. "Checkmate."

Solo let out a disgruntled sigh. "You could at least pretend to give the game your full attention, Peril, instead of reading at the same time." Solo pushed himself up from the armchair and crossed the room to the well-stocked bar in the corner. The large opulent hotel room was a far cry from the cramped dilapidated safe house they had spent the last two months in.

"Perhaps you would prefer to play game of chequers, Cowboy?" Illya Kuryakin queried in an amused tone.

Solo poured two whiskeys' and handed one to the Russian before sitting back down. "You don't let me win at that either," he stated in a petulant tone. Solo smiled as Peril picked up the book and leaned back in his own chair, humour flashing in his eyes even as his lips twisted into a tight smile.

Solo had learned over time that whatever Peril was thinking or feeling was reflected in his eyes, even as his facial expression remained stoic, or in most cases when it was facing Solo, murderous.

"What are you reading anyway?" Solo asked, titling his glass in Peril's general direction.

"Animal Farm by George Orwell ** _._** Is interesting." And with that, Peril returned to his book **.** The late afternoon sun bathed him in a golden glow. It was an increasingly common sight, to see Peril so relaxed, content with a book, his glass of whiskey and Solo's company.

Solo could have taken umbrage at the unintentional dismissal, but Peril had become quite the bibliophile of late, devouring book after book. It didn't seem to matter what the books were about; Peril would read them. The books on art that Solo may or may not have paid for, the spicy romances that Gaby feigned innocence on their racy content, or the weighty biographies that Waverly enthused about, Peril read them all.

It saddened Solo that Peril, for whatever reason, had had little opportunity to indulge in what was quite obviously a passion for the written word and the subsequent knowledge it held. He'd feared any teasing on the subject may have driven Peril to hide his love of reading, forcing him to only read when he was alone. It pleased Solo far more than he was willing to admit, even to himself, to know that Peril had become comfortable with them to share his hobbies.

Although Solo and Gaby regularly challenged Peril to a game of chess, they were usually roundly beaten within minutes. Peril never refused a game and never criticised their efforts. Waverly had proved a tougher opponent for Peril, but the Englishman had never won a game either.

If someone has told Solo a year ago that he would be contently sat in the company of an often-times grumpy Soviet, he would have thought them mad.

But here he was. Sat opposite a man he had once referred to as inhuman but who he now trusted to watch his back. Peril, much like Solo, hadn't been thrilled to have been 'loaned' to UNCLE, but a year of missions had forged something stronger than friendship between the three of them.

Solo had tried to dig deeper into Peril's past when it became obvious that they would be working together for some time to come. Although Peril had proven his trust and loyalty to both Solo and Gaby on several occasions on the Rome and Istanbul missions, his violent outbursts had concerned Solo. Although never directed at his teammates they had caused problems with the mission objectives. Solo had seen the despair and terror in Peril's eyes when the Russian had surveyed the damage he had wrought.

It had taken a lot of digging to find out more information on Peril than what was contained in the CIA file. What he had managed to collect had been mainly a mix of commendations and educational achievements. But it was the smaller, almost inconsequential information that had come his way – newspaper reports, a misfiled psychologist report, and some coroner reports that had proved more interesting. However, they still didn't tell Solo much.

Peril had won a silver medal in '58 at a Power Boat Tournament, but his KGB partner and power boat team mate had died in a tragic collision during the team race.

His psychosis was well known to the KGB, but was, alarmingly, considered an asset and not a potentially dangerous condition.

Two temporary partners, a fellow KGB officer and an East German Stasi officer, had both died while in the presence of Peril. Except for knowing that Peril was there further details on how the others had died, or why had been impossible to retrieve.

Solo had filed the information away and forgotten about it. He and Gaby had quickly learned how to predict Peril's outbursts and Peril had seemed grateful for their interventions. Waverly had also arranged for Peril to receive more specialist help and the Russian had slowly improved.

His temper still simmered and often erupted but Peril gained more control over it, and with it, or so it seemed to Solo, the taller man started to loosen up. Granted he would never be the life and soul of a party, but he started to smile more and allowed both Gaby and Solo to drag him to clubs and bars, even to the movies. It was always accompanied by complaints of the decadent West but that was just part of Peril's charm.

Except that Solo started to notice a pattern.

On occasion UNCLE had to team up with outside agencies on missions. On those times Peril became the stoic, KGB officer Gaby and Solo had encountered on their first mission together. Solo had had to pull him off a CIA agent when said agent had ridiculed Solo and it had taken the combined efforts of both him and Gaby to prevent Peril from maiming a KGB officer.

Solo had at first thought it was Peril not trusting the other agents and always being on his guard that caused him to react violently to insults, even though half the incidents concerned involved slurs and disrespect towards Solo and Gaby.

But Solo had noticed that it was only non-UNCLE agents Peril acted to in such a manner. Although he could be standoffish he usually took the teasing camaraderie with good humour from fellow UNCLE agents.

Perhaps that was the difference Solo mused. Teasing as opposed to outright mockery. Although, particularly with the British agents, the more they liked you the more they seemed to insult you. Peril and Ian Foster-Wood, a former MI5 officer, would often trade barbs, much to the amusement of those around them.

But it didn't explain why Peril worked so badly with outside agencies. With UNCLE agents he could be curt and even angry, but he never lost his temper. Not once. But then again Peril's skills and knowledge were prized in UNCLE. Peril was valued. As was Solo, as was every agent. You only became an UNCLE agent if you were exceptional. Solo had certainly enjoyed being away from CIA control. Waverly gave him far more freedom to manoeuvre on missions and had eventually managed to release Solo from the CIA to become a fully-fledged UNCLE agent. But the older man had made it quite clear that he was well aware of the nest egg Solo had accumulated for his eventual release from the CIA, but now that he was an UNCLE agent would he mind terribly not doing anything illegal.

Solo looked over at Peril who was still absorbed in his book, taking the occasional sip from his whiskey glass. Solo remembered that frantic night in East Berlin, Peril was a formidable foe. When they had met in the men's room in that West Berlin park Solo was certain Peril would have killed him, right in front of Sanders, if Peril's handler hadn't put a stop to it.

 _"Don't kill your partner on your first day"_

Solo had always assumed that those words, that had stopped Peril from choking him, had meant what it had ultimately lead to – the two of them working together with Gaby to avoid a nuclear war. But now he wasn't so certain. Had Peril killed his partner's before? The KGB officer and Stasi officer he had coroner reports for, had they been partners with Peril? How many more had he killed?

And why hadn't Peril killed him? Granted he gave it a good try in the men's room, but that would have been for vengeance in failing in his mission. Solo had bested him after all.

But when they'd been forced to work together, to become partners, were Peril's handler's words a portent? Peril had plenty of opportunity, was in fact given orders to do so, if necessary. But in Solo's room, Peril had been reluctant. As soon as Solo had opened the door and turned his back on him, Peril could have killed him. But he didn't. Why? Why had Peril defied orders and agreed to burn the computer tape so neither country could benefit from the information? Peril was proud of his country, he believed in Communism, but he had agreed with an American agent to destroy something highly prized by his superiors, to have risked going home in disgrace. Solo doubted it would have been just a prolonged lecture at full volume, as Sanders would have done. He expected Peril would have received something far more physical and painful. Solo had seen the scars Peril bore.

The more Solo thought about it, the more baffled he became. There were too many questions and no way to get answers. Well, there was one way.

Solo pushed himself forward, until he sat on the edge of the armchair cushion with his forearms on his thighs he stared down at the carpet contemplating on what he wanted to ask.

 _Have you killed any of your partners before?_

 _What did your handler really mean by 'don't kill your partner on the first day'?_

 _Why didn't you kill me? I deliberately pushed every button I can find and yet you worked with me, but you can't work with other agents without losing your temper?_

Solo looked up to find Peril studying him with a puzzled frown.

"You okay, Cowboy?"

And suddenly the questions didn't matter anymore. None of it mattered. The past was just that, the past. What good would it do to dredge it all up? Peril was happy. He was free from the KGB, but still retained citizenship to his beloved homeland. How Waverly had achieved such a coup was unknown. Peril was an efficient, competent senior agent of UNCLE, and Solo and Gaby's teammate.

"Yes, I'm fine, Peril." He replied with a smile as he made himself comfortable once more.

Peril gave him a quizzical look before returning to his book, accepting Solo at his word.

 _'Don't kill your partner on your first day?'_

It didn't matter what that meant, not anymore. It hadn't happened, not to Solo, even if it had happened before.

But Peril wasn't just his partner. He was Solo's friend.

Brothers-in-arms.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

This story was certainly not what I had envisioned when I decided to answer the prompt. My usual writing style is short, very, very short stories.

Some of the chapters have been a struggle to write and I am horrified that it has taken me so many months to finally complete this story.

Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos, each and everyone are very much appreciated and kept me going even when I'd managed to write myself into a corner.

I shall now return to writing my quick, short, oneshot stories - eventually.


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